


Swarm's Musing

by clouds_sanctuary



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Chris and Waylon are only mentioned, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Wally is condescending, it is 2:57 am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26264788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clouds_sanctuary/pseuds/clouds_sanctuary
Summary: The Walrider thinks about its host.
Relationships: Miles Upshur & The Walrider
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Swarm's Musing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pegacorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegacorn/gifts).



> So I haven’t written like, anything in a long time, so I guess this could be considered…practice? It’s half that and half of seeing if I can still write an interesting enough Walrider.  
> This is not connected to my previous one shot “The Host”.
> 
> Dedicated to Pegacorn 'cause she's one of the coolest chicks in the fandom and her writing is to die for and she's probably not going to read this but that's ok

I watched you sleep one night.

Oh yes, I certainly did.

You seemed to be awake yet asleep, tossing and turning in a nightmare-induced state. Dreams of static and visions of creatures unknown flashed behind your eyelids, as much as you tried to obtain any semblance of a peaceful sleep, you cowered further under your blankets, into your pillow, hoping their comforting softness would swallow up the horrors that plagued your unawake moments.

Did I cause these nightmares? Is it me you hear in the night, is it the buzzing in your skull, the images burned into the sockets? So empty they are, without the gelatinous flesh you require to see, and while that may be obvious, know that I have none.

And yet, I saw everything.

In the asylum, and in you.

* * *

The behemoth was after you, constantly, he was looking for you. He split skulls along the way. I had to applaud him, in the back of my mind, for he was not as foolish as he appeared to be, all muscle and no brain. The threat, what needed containment, was me. And who would I turn to for a host body if all around me were dead, and headless, for that matter? Him?

No, he did not meet the criteria.

Not enough.

Not enough like you.

I’m sure the sound of chains rattling is a trigger for you, giving the illusion that the ‘big fucking guy’, as you so eloquently put it in a page I read of your scribbled drivel, is near you, and that he has plans to add you to his…collection.

At the time, I did not want you to die. I wanted you to _leave._ To take your story and go show someone who had the ability to do something with it. Our few encounters were brief, I hadn’t paid you much mind, until you got yourself cornered by your recurring pursuer, and, well, you know the rest. If you ever wondered, shredding a hulking body with a vent is not much of a feat for me.

And then…then you had to go deeper.

* * *

Sleep is beyond me.

That is not to say that I am above the idea of regeneration—I do that for you every day—but the act of sleeping is something I do not require. The concept is lost on me. I do not have eyes to close, nor must I do this in order to rejuvenate myself. Without sleep, you will succumb and perish. It reminds me of the patients. How many of them needed sleep and refused it. The nightmares, similar to yours. The blood dreams. The dream therapy. The screaming. The scratching. The buzzing. The clawing. In your head, in your veins.

That is where you and them are different. I am in your veins.

* * *

So the old man must have said something to you. Made you run the other way. You could have gotten out. But then again, I can go anywhere, so maybe it was personally situational thinking on my part. Nevertheless, you made the mistake of listening to him. And you came after Billy.

Your idiocy failed to amuse me, and so did the game of cat and mouse we played. You looked tortured, haunted. How I wished you would have been smarter. But the fact that you were in the asylum in the first place should have been an allusion to the fact that you are _not._

It was a wonder how you made it that far, but you would only go any farther in pieces.

* * *

“Am I still alive? Or am I dead?” You asked me one day. Unfortunately I had no real answer. I assumed you understood this by my buzzing response, though you made no attempt to confirm or deny that. You lay on this filthy mattress, in this filthy room, in this filthy motel, sweeping your hand over holes in your skin, wounds that have been healing since you staggered from the asylum. Those, along with your stumps: physical reminders of your ordeals.

If I had to choose one, I would call you alive. Are you truly dead, if you are awake and breathing? If I suffocated you right now, I would lose my host.

In the echo of night, keys jangled and a door slammed. A swear lost on the breeze. As I floated towards the window, your head lolled to watch me.

A shaky rasping sound was emitted from my body; something akin to exhaling in freezing temperatures. It was merely a soft laugh.

What are the odds we would meet again, Whistleblower?


End file.
